“I know,” she interrupted. “Marie Josephine told me last night before we went to sleep. She said we must be quiet about it and not talk too much, because there was so much to plan. She told me that I must not speak at all by the gates or afterward, for fear I would give myself away, but I’ve remembered ever so many things that Vivi used to say, and when I’m dressed in tatters I think I can talk like her.” Rosanne smiled cheerfully as she spoke, but her smile faded a little, later in the day, when all her long, soft, golden hair was sheared and fell in a glittering heap on the chest. She did not cry, but there was a quiver about her mouth. Dian picked the hair up and wrapped it in a piece of satin that had covered one of the pillows they had brought down. “It will not be safe to take it with us; but remember, Mademoiselle, nothing can happen to the hidden cellar. Some day we will come here to the chest and find it and give it to your mother in memory of the old days in France, which will be dear to her,” he said, laying the bright bundle in a corner of the chest. They all laughed at each other, for they were the sorriest sights imaginable. Vivi lived in one of the worst alleys in Paris, and her friends were the most unkempt of all the children who played about the gates. Rosanne’s hair they discolored with a dark fluid, and they rubbed dye into her delicate face and arms and hands. She wore a tattered dress, which had a berry stain down the front, and no stockings under her broken shoes. They had not dared to let her go barefooted because of her feet betraying her. Marie Josephine was Vivi, in the torn dirty dress that had stood the journey from Pigeon Valley, her uncombed hair flapping about her face and eyes. She was tanned like a veritable gypsy, and there was no need of any more disguise for her. She was the street gamin to perfection, and she had the gift of knowing how to play a part. She had confidence, too. The experience at the house of Great-aunt Hortense had given it to her. She was full of fire and courage and the love of adventure. She was ready! “The last of the Saint Frères! Oh, you funny boy!” She danced about her brother mockingly. “What an honest country lad you look, to be sure, does he not, Humphrey Trail?” she cried laughingly. “He does look out of his usual way, but tha knows he is the same. I’m fashed to see how any one else could tell him to be the proud lad he is,” Humphrey answered slowly, surveying Lisle soberly. Lisle gave him a quick smile. “Humphrey Trail, the only friend I had in Paris the day the Tuileries was sacked,” he said, and a look of friendship passed between the two.